Vincent Barrowcliffe

On The Death Of A Librarian Poem by Vincent Barrowcliffe

By torments deep, are left many a scar,
That nor words nor kindness can heal,
And unto our lives are begotten many a mar,
That nor the brightest nor the truest can seal;

Upon dark shelves, are found many a thought,
And words, that depict of ancience and old,
But, minds that with sorrow are fraught,
Dwell uninfluenced, in this deathly eve cold;

A man, old, whose life, noble,
Dwelt once, amongst those words upon forgotten shelves,
And, truth, falsehood, sorrow and joy, were not ignoble,
As he had liven all, all selves;

He was the one, from whom would begin and end,
All days and noons, with Holy Sun upon,
And, a smile, oh! so noble would lend,
Which shall we forever, forever don;

Upon his everly race, from mirthly ground to velvety sky,
He walked and ran, walked and ran, ever,
And without rest, without sleep, without a sigh,
He neither sat nor lay, never!

Upon his greet, ah! Holy Heavens would cheer,
As would his infallible knowledge do, from mind to mind,
And of forgotten books and thoughts would smear,
What was done never by the kindest nor kind;

He remained, remained from birth,
And ill-taken though, never left,
But all memories of him are now dearth,
For he left now forever, us, bereft;

We recall his sitting, sitting upon a chair still,
And by the celebrations and howls and shouts of the world,
He never stirred, never turned unto the window sill,
But now, his lone chair remains as his birth is backward hurled;

Upon a win, upon a victory, his joy lay equivalent,
And, he turned mere words to gold,
But now we curse Death, his assailant,
As his hair whisper among forgotten ashes of old;

One noon, upon a chair he lay,
The one, who never slept had sought!
And suffered agonies upon his stay,
His fiend injury made him rot!

Amongst the ill, ill he lay,
Upon a cot, oh! The sickly cot!
His birth to see the end of his day,
The deathly wraith, had him caught!

And, as our leave, would gradually begin,
Of his departure, was heard to our ear,
Said we, 'A man so noble, without a sin,
Our beloved, is now but a rid-dear? '

Hopes unshaken, for his revival, for his life,
And, we bade and bid, bade and bid,
In our struggles and petty a strife,
In nether realms, he has hid now forever, he has hid;

We saw him carried, carried unto death,
And saw him placed upon logs that cut and bleed,
As he was burnt, in ashes of his breath,
What began as a seed, ended now as a seed;

He burnt, burnt as books on shelves would do,
And flew his remains, unto dark heavens cold,
And he whispered in the wind's dew,
But for whispers were now a lore, a forgotten lore of old;

The worth of a worthy, is not to be,
Until hearts worthy are reminded,
For what is to be, until is no more to be,
Shall ever not be, not be binded;

He is here, in the library, he was here,
From dawn unto night, night unto dawn,
His footsteps are still heard, as our eyes dampen and drear,
But he has left us, he is begone;

He shall be here, forever upon his chair, here,
Farewell, O dearest Librarian, farewell, dear,
Thou shall dwell here, forever shall dwell here,
As our eyes shall mourn forever, and dampen, drear;

His life was but a word, a word that remains,
Remains here, evermore, and echoed throughout his breath,
The word showers, showers upon holy reigns,
His life dwelled, in the echoes of the word, 'work', and he worked unto death;

'Thou, the Great Librarian, in thy memory,
Shall be writ no lore, of infinite glory,
But of hearts wherein ever thou shall dwell,
A sound awakens, of your echoing knell';

He shall be here, forever upon his chair, here,
Farewell, O dearest Librarian, farewell, dear,
He shall dwell here, forever shall dwell here,
He remained here, he was here, he is here.

Submitted: Sunday, August 11, 2013
Edited: Monday, December 29, 2014

Topic of this poem: mourn

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